...

As the young squire lay on the stone floor, writhing in agony, blood filling his eyes, he had the faint impression that his lips were being parted and a putrid, nauseating liquid being poured down his throat. The liquid seared through his veins, alighting his body in internal fire, awakening pains in parts of his body he never knew he had. To the mage who was pouring the liquid, it seemed as if the injuries on his body were working backward. Tendrils of flesh flailed out in search of other bits of flesh to conjoin with. The young squire’s flesh knitted itself, his internal organs stopped bleeding, resuming natural rhythms and order while his nose righted itself and ceased its pouring of blood. Full consciousness took control of young boy and as he regained his faculties, he heard a hoarse, croaking voice calling him back. Gently he opened his eyes.

“It was a might lucky that I was with the guard this night young master. Next time ye might not be as lucky. How many times has ye’r sire reprimanded ye? Guard duty is best left to the guards, but ye have a heart on ye, no denying that. And the burnt hand often the best lesson teaches. Up with ye, lets take a look at…”

But what the Mage was going to look at was forever lost in time and space; for Curion, the young squire, sprang suddenly up and raced to the stain glass window from which the rogue escaped, shoved the guards out of they way, and watched the thief’s descent until he was finally claimed by darkness. “Tis done then” he proclaimed, believing the vagrant to have perished in the fall. It was many hundreds of feat and many mangled and destroyed bodies had in the past proved that a fall from that height was fatal.

Shock, surprise and boiling outrage overcame Curion then when he saw, with the light of a flash of lightning, the thief clinging haplessly to a conjured rope. None of the guards had seen it for the flash of light had been brief, and indeed, their eyes were those of the common blood. Curion, a sister-son of the royal bloodline, shared still some of the divine essence that lingered on in it. Keen sight and hardiness had been gifted to him beyond the measure of normal men. “What conjuration is this Mage? For what reason have the wards not been triggered? Has it come to this, where the Keep has been overrun by cowardice and ineptitude? By the Gods man! What in the name of all things sacred is going on here?”

Looking sternly at the young boy, seeing the potential he carried, the Mage decided that a swift reprimand in front of the guard would best serve his purpose. “Do not presume to forget ye place, young one. You speak to no common court jester, and I fear your father would have something to say, had he seen you speaking to ye’re superior and friend this way. Ye are weary with battle, both in mind and body and I shall forgive ye’re transgression…this time. But ye had best not be taking liberties with me boy, not unless ye would see yerself joining your assailant in his plunge.”

“My apologies old friend,” the boy stammered after a lengthy and pregnant pause, “forgive my loose tongue I pray ye. The lust of battle runs through my body, all the hotter for the liquid ye poured down my throat. What was it pray tell?”

“A concoction of mine own devising, but we shall discuss this at length, when we have wakened thy father from his slumber, and told our tale full to the Lords” the Mage replied sagely. “That was no mere trinket the rogue made off with. Dear me we are in for a long night. Thy Lord shan’t be happily awoken this night, not at all.”

I guess i will (against my better judgment) give this thing a wack.
Besides, i like stories.

********************************************************************

A Monk stepped out from under the gloom of night, his bare feet splatting silently in a reflective puddle of water as he came to crouch at the spot where the thief had made away into the dark. Rubbing his chin in silent thought, he examined the ground beneath him as if expecting to find some clue as to the rogue's current location, or perhaps a possible destination. But it was obvious, if only to himself, that he was pondering on his next course of action, rather than trying to actually pursue the villain.
The commontion above him had subsided somewhat by the time that he rose to his feet. He craned his neck upward, gazing into the rainfall for a while, not finding a thing in the darkened sky. So the relic has been stolen... he thought to himself. A cold gust swept then through the area, sending his auburn hair thrashing in the wind, almost in unison with his robe. "Skillful this robber must be to have accomplished such a feat." He remarked, looking back to the fortress-like building behind him. Soon people would come, he knew, in search of their latest criminal. They will be hungry for justice and if they were to find him there, he would be in more trouble than he cared to be involved in right now.
How tired he had grown of their self-righteous tirades, their merciless crusades. As much as he felt that he wanted to oppose them, though he knew that this was not the time, nor the place. He would fight them on his own terms... as he had done up until now. It's not like they gave him much of a choice in the first place...

The young man sprung to action, dashing to the side at tremendous speed. He could not turn the other way, for the danger was too great so close to the monastery, so he spead off in roughly the same direction the thief had taken. With the wind gracing his skin as he ran, he could feel a palpable sense of forboding all about, perhaps a direct result of the latest event that had just transpired. Indeed, this night had the startings of something that he could not quite wrap his head around yet.
And he knew all to well that the lord will not awake to good news.

He disappeared around a bend, a slight glimmer revealed the monk's robe to be dark blue of colour, instead of red...

...

The sounds, sights and smells of the shady hovel assaulted Curion’s sensibilities. He had been warned, many times before of the dangers of public life, especially as one of his lineage and profession. The bar’s partly faded, and lopsided name was ‘The Lion’s Mouth’. The irony was not lost on him.

Gently he puffed on his pipe and blew a steady stream of curling smoke from his puckered lips. The disguise was necessary, as he needed information, and he needed it now. The wheedling methods of the mages and the court were not sufficient to sate the adolescent spirit of adventure in him. He was attacked. He was injured while doing his God-sworn duty. He was wrong, and he was on the moral high-ground. He had to be.

As he mused over his troubles, the thought came to him that learnéd scholars could make a life’s work, studiously puzzling over the motivations and psychologies of the barely human ingrates secreted about the common room’s perimeter. Historians could entomb volumes of stories and anecdotes, as long as a steady stream of alcohol was maintained to keep the dimwitted dunderheads recalling their cretinous analogies. Ignoramuses, all of them.

However, as often proved to be the case, planning to take a course of action, and actually taking were two mutually exclusive concepts. He had come to the inn, composed and single-mindedly determined to find someone who knew about the rogue, and his magical help. It was clear to Curion that the thief himself has not performed the conjuration, but that at the very least, he had expected its appearance. That implied help. Help denoted conspiracy. Eyes probing the darkness, the shadows and the enclaves, he swept his gaze back and forth across the denizens of the room, hoping – perhaps in vain – for some sign, some indicator which would dictate his next move. For goodness sakes! It worked in the romantic novel he has learnt, why not now?

He decided he would either have to exercise some control over his wits, or leave the bar soon, fir his heart flamed with passion each time a scuffle or an argument broke out, and lest he give away his true appearance, he should remain unaffected by it. Bar scuffles were after all, far from extraordinary. Curion realised that he was not even armed. There was a fine start. Idly he pondered what scholars and historians would write about him if they were watching him now. A sudden thought prickled at his consciousness, “What if he was being watched right now?” Casting such silly thoughts away, he returned to he silent vigil of the common room. Unbeknownst to him, an auburn haired male, of tall height and noble bearing has assumed a seat next to him. The gentle swishing of his deep blue robe alerted Curion to his presence. The pipe weed must have made him giddy to be so ashamedly caught unawares. “I am heavily armed I shall have ye know” he said, mustering the most fearsome grimace his boyish face could conjure “and perfectly willing too…” he trailed off.

Arken turned his head, regarding the boy next to him with a curious eye. Some strange behavior if ever he saw any. And certainly one of the smallest or most well hidden weapons the young one must be carrying to keep it from the monk's razor-sharp, gray eyes. Reminding him of his own armament however, he reached for the weapon at his back and eased the exotic, slender sword to a position on his right hip, all the while keeping a firm grip on the hilt.
This was not the kind of place to be carrying a deadly blade on one's back, lest you risk having some cretin place it in your spine. Indeed it this was a foul place; visibility was impaired considerably by the amount of smoke alone. Broken pieces of glass littered the floor, their usual sparkle near any light source as dim as the eyes of all who frequent the bar. Even the tables and chairs seemed haggard and rotten, barely able to support the weight of the many drunkards who tried in vain to use them as a resting place or a dance floor. The noise coming from the building could be heard almost more than a block away and attracted even more unwelcome company as the day grew older.

Arken could hardly stand the place and the smoke coming from the lad's pipe was not helping the situation any. But it seemed like he had little choice, this bar trafficked a lot of shady characters and if he wanted to hide away from the search parties, at least for a while, this was the spot to do it. He was secretly hoping that none would think the thief foolish enough to try and seek refuge here, effectively steering their investigation away from the place.
But it was only a matter of time before the city guard would appear to ransack the building. It was of utmost importance that he leaves before than happens. His stay would have to be brief.

Little did he know however, that a certain spirited young squire had already found his way to the very seat right next to him. Then he made the possibly fatal error of exchanging words with the squire-in-disguise. "Do not be so skittish my friend. You have more to fear from the other ruffians in the room than me," he said with a light, somewhat awkward foreign accent as he kept on surveying the area. "It seems as though the people here attach little value to honorable morals," he finished, still sitting without so much as a glass of water before him.

Curion stole a glance at the man sitting next to him. The fact that he had got so close to him without being noticed was most distressing. His auburn hair was hanging loose, something Curion hated. Lack of discipline and untidiness. This was not someone who made a good impression. Despite his revulsion at the man’s rugged appearance, Curion knew enough about battle and war to surmise that this was not someone easily bested in contest of strength of prowess with the sword. It was with this thought in mind, that his eyes passed over the drawn sword, lying in the man’s lap.

Curion closed his eyes for what passed as a second in the real world. His mind, though, had just raced through his devotional clarity exercises. He had learned the technique from his Lord, who had always maintained, that any situation could be resolved with clarity of thought and presence of mind. His mind was cleared of all thoughts barring those of the moment, his muscles reflexively tightened and strained in readiness, and his eyes pierced shadows and flesh.

Curion looked at the man for the first time, and truly saw for the first time, much that he had not before. “I gather from the mettle of your blade, that you are a monk….friend, but ye are not robed in the red of the order. Why is that? I am told that this is a place where people come to be forgotten, so what is it ye wish to leave in ye’re wake?” The monk seemed to grow uncomfortable at the probing questions and Curion noticed his knuckles whitened around the hilt of his weapon. Knowing that a cornered beast could fight with twice its usual prowess when cornered, and knowing also that even in a straight fight he would likely not best this Monk, he decided to retreat and play it defensively. “I meant no offence brother, and ye speak of morals. Know then that to strike me down would be to fell and unarmed person. I am named Curion by my Lord, I am a squire for the Knights of the Royal House. How are ye known, and what is your intention”.

Curion felt no compunction in telling this Monk this. Despite his rugged and worn appearance, Curion’s eyes told a different tale. It seemed to Curion that the monk was hiding something, but not evil. More like a feigned poverty, a concealed nobility. A diamond in the rough if he had ever seen it, though a diamond with a sharp edge, one that could cut the unwary whether they be friend of foe. Caution was needed. He required information, and if this monk had any, then it would be his. The thief had left the city, this much the wizard had confirmed. Gems of seeing were stolen, which indicated to the Lords, that the thief knew not the full use of the artefact he had stolen, or he would have known that the precious gems he stole we srcying stones and not ordinary gems.

The Lord had alerted the Barbarians to the North and the peoples of the borderlands. It was unlikely that the thieves would remain in the South, with the guards patrolling constantly, and with the Council of Mages so clear. They no doubt needed to proceed to an area where the Lords held little or no power. That meant North. Curion knew the area not though, and needed a guide. A glimmer flashed briefly in his eyes, a spark of realisation born of paranoia. Perhaps he could fool this monk into guiding him. He would have to play it carefully though.

Sweaty palm clenched, subconsciously, sword hilt even tighter as Arken heard the words roll from the mouth of the youthful man sitting next to him. His knuckles had grown white from mere uneasiness at first, a physical release from the probing questions coming from the nearby company. But to hear such a revelation spoken, so casually no less, right next to him sent an outburst, a cry out to all his senses for a call to arms. A Knight!
He did well to stay his reflexes though, and the surprised outrage he felt was expertly hidden beneath his rather stern, if still somewhat young features. After all, had the Squire recognized him, or known him, he would not have given himself away so carelessly. Still, he could not help but wonder why the Knight in training did not know of him, even pointing out his out of the ordinary robe. Is it possible that Curion was not informed? If so, then why? Perhaps The Order has lost interest in the blue clad monk, his transgression being of no astronomical importance to the Monastery, save injured pride. Perhaps recent events stole their attention to the thief, demanding all of their resources. Had he become insignificant to them, or was his latest acquaintance just uninformed?

"I am known as Arken. My intention was merely to sit here undisturbed, until you came along," he replied pointedly, but did not take it any further, nor explained the reason for his 'discolored' robe. He kept his tone level and unchallenging though, not wanting to sound threatened or threatening to the lad, who was obviously alert, sharp beyond his years. And Arken did not doubt that he possessed other talents unheard of from someone his age. Not to mention the stunning fact that Curion actually recognized the blade he carried, to some extent at least - It was by no means customary for any monk, especially not of The Order, to wield such a weapon, yet Curion understood it to be of monkish origin by the mettle alone. And his prized Katana was, although forged by a monk, not even from this land.
Considering carefully his position in this matter, both of his current location and in this conversation, Arken found that he took a curious interest in the one filling the seat next to him; He could by no means refute the squire's impressive display of lore and knowledge, and the voice of the young Knight had, to him at least, an underlining tone of truth and honesty, which was more than he could often say of himself.

But his interest could lead him into playing a potentially dangerous, if not deadly game and it would be foolish of him to get tangled up in it now. It was a risk that Arken was not prepared to take. The time had come for him to take his leave.

"Know you then that honor and morals are two very different things," he retorted as he rose from his stool to depart. "Do not confuse the two," he finished. And after a silence, he realized that Curion might have misinterpreted his words. "But I will not attempt to strike you down, for it is not in my nature to introduce myself by bloodshed."

Curion regarded him for a few moments, fully expecting the monk to turn and leave, and with him, his fleeting chances of gaining valuable information.
But he never did. And as Arken spoke the words, Curion noticed the growing danger all about.
"Alas, it would appear that I have no choice this time," Arken said at length with a measure of resignation, his back still turned to the other patrons of the bar as he silently sheathed his weapon at his left hip, but still retaining a solid grip, obviously poised and ready to strike at the first sign of danger.
Curion was quick to realize that his words, spoken however discriminately, had virtually traversed the bar and found its way to the ears of quite a few unfriendly-looking customers. Customers who did not hold dogs of the Royal House in high regard...

"Uh-oh" thought Curion. "This is going to get real interesting, real quick.” Curion had known that he had taken a foolish risk coming here, knowing full well the value that would be placed upon his life. Ransoms or bounties or any number of dastardly motivations could persuade the patrons of “The Lion’s Mouth” to want to capture him or do him harm.

Movement slightly behind Arken’s head caught Curion’s eye. Unless he was much mistaken, he had seen a ray of sunlight refract off of a sword hilt. The slithering sound of metal on scabbard a half-breath later confirmed his suspicions. His would-be assailants were approaching from behind Arken, where they would remain unseen to both Arken and Curion himself. He had to act quickly, and he knew not yet whether Arken was friend or foe. A simple course of action seemed prevalent in his mind, and he was determined to see this through to the end. Recklessness caused death and wild abandon saved it. Who had told him that he mused? Had he known then it was a drunken idiom he had heard from a beggar, he might have rethought his actions.

With as little visible movement as possible, Curion mentally shifted his balance on the seat, distributing his weight from his rear onto his feet. Timing was crucial. Just as he judged the assailant to be behind Arken, he propelled himself forwards, barrelling into the monk and sending them both tumbling end over end, into the rough centre of the common room. The surprise move had certainly startled Arken, a heartening thought, and Curion left his tangled body lying on the floor as he quickly regained his feet. Grasping a long bottle of what he presumed was alcohol that could qualify as drain cleaner, he strode forward cockily thinking himself able to make quick work of the collapsed assailant. For all his heroic efforts though, he had not factored into the equation the monk’s billowing blue robe which had subsequently tied itself around his feet and tripped him as he moved, sprawling him face first into the hard wood, right before what he saw was a burly and hairy armed man who stank of old booze.

...

Sorry Ziggy (and Ninja), man. I find that, when i even have the time to write, my mind is one hell of a mess. So please forgive me if these replies are far inbetween and somehwat short of being decent...


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*************************************************************

Arken lay sprayed across the floor, stunned at the move that the squire had just pulled and equally stunned at the fact that he could have split him in two, had he not sheathed his weapon. But this was not good, the tackle had destroyed what plans he had conjured for the awaiting fight; He was on his back, sword not drawn, with numerous thugs closing in fast.
Most notable was the one towering over the both of them at that moment, holding some wickedly twisted metal object, roughly resembling a crude, dull sword, at his side as he smiled menacingly (and rather toothlessly) at them, his breath just about as deadly as his ensuing strike.

He realized then that the floor beneath him was far too uneven and soft... and it was moving. Reflexively Arken drew his blade and plunged it deep between his two legs, skewering the drunk beneath him in the crotch. The howl of pain assaulted his ears and echoed throughout the bar just before it died away as the man passed into blackness due to sheer pain.
Arken had to act quickly though, and rolled backwards into what looked like a hand-stand and kicked the overhead bully squarely in the jaw, coming full circle again to find his feet. He twirled about to connect solidly with a backhand against the thug's temple before pulling his Katana free of his first victim and leaving the next combatant with a thin line of blood stretching diagonally from his belly to his shoulder. On equal footing once more, the monk was now as prepared as he ever would be for this situation. He kicked the ruffian, who was still standing motionless, in the chest, sending him flying backwards to the floor, taking a few of his cohorts with him as he bowled through their ranks.
Arken turned around to find that Curion's chances were looking even grimmer, the bottle he had used as a weapon was already shattered in an attempt to parry a threatening attack and he was desperately dodging more blows left and right. The squire was staring empty handed at the two opponents shuffling closer and closer to him. His chances were not looking up at all.
Arken noticed that the squire shot him a glance, though he was unable to discern what for. Perhaps it was to check on his status, or perhaps he was looking over his shoulder to see if the Monk was not about to literally stab him in the back. Arken decided not to disappoint...

He reached into his robe and produced yet another, similar, but shorter sword. Taking the wakizashi by the tip, his arm went wide as the blade cut sharply through the air, aimed directly at Curion. The blade, not really meant to be thrown, flew at great speed towards the squire, who caught it deftly by the handle.
'Use it well!' Arken declared over the noise as he engaged the next foe to near him. He had decided that it was a look of desperation coming from Curion and whether or not he would end up regretting the decision, knew that the young knight would be proficient enough with it.
He wrapped around an enemy's side, coming about behind him and eased his Katana into the back of his neck, dropping the man at his feet. This one, unlike the other two, was dead...

Curion regarded the sword in his hand in an appraising manner. Similar in shape and style to the Katana, the Wakizashi was simply shorter – about 18 inches long. Curion knew that it was of splendid craftsmanship and that this was a weapon not to be taken lightly. Springing into a back flip, falling and then rolling backwards, Curion regained his footing and found he had succeeded in putting so well needed distance between him and the two drunks. Stealing a glance at the robed monk, he was reassured to see his back was well protected for the time being. Time to deal with the ruffians.

While Curion knew that his assailants were no doubt well inebriated and therefore had slightly dulled reflexes, the many scars on their arms and faces paid testament to their fighting prowess, and sought to remind him that this was no trifle bar fight. No less than his life would be at stake here. He decided on a feint. Rushing in to the right of the burly freckled man on the right, he swept the his sword up in a rising arc which would have cleaved the man’s head, had he been a fool. The man clearly thought he was facing an amateur and brought his cudgel up lazily to block the clumsy strike. Curion did not plan to decapitate the man though, far from it. The man’s clumsy sidestepping parry, had brought him squarely between Curion and his party, significantly evening the odds.

The brute seemed unfazed and simply struck a blow with all his might. The cudgel fell but only splintered wood flew up in response. Curion had easily dodged the blow and as the lumbering ox of a man looked down, he was greeted by a shallow cut running across his mid-section. Curion knew he was playing a dangerous game in not finishing the man off directly. Anger could be used to his advantage, but could also be a dangerous ally. The man, war hardened, and veteran of many battles, pulled back as if meaning to allow his friend a shot at the pie. Curion’s heart dropped, the gambit had not succeeded. Just as he thought this though, the man sprang back and ran in a head rush, bent over double meaning to overpower Curion and bring him down under his weight. Fate perhaps could be said to have saved Curion as the man stumbled in mid stride and came tumbling down in front of Curion. Curion cleaved his skull and the man knew no more.

The second man was completely unlike his partner in crime. Curion would have sworn he was an elf, had he not been missing the tell-tale pointed ears. Lithe and supple, the man wielded two daggers, and seemed to be less inebriated than he had let on. Curion wondered absentmindedly why he had not simply danced around his burly companion and come at him from behind when the lanky man spat, “You’re mine!” Flashing the daggers in a pointless display, he adopted a half crouched fighting style, one dagger held for stabbing and one for parrying, and began circling Curion menacingly. Panic rose in his throat as Curion realised this was no bar thief, street vagabond or cut-purse. This was a seasoned fighter who knew his way around the alleys, and more importantly, knew how to dispose of people in his way.

Like two animals, sizing each other up, they circled and circled. Their world shrank in around them, until only they remained. Hunter and prey, alpha and omega. Their eyes were locked, and their breathing was controlled - each trying to recall lessons and tactics that had served them in the past. Curion realised with a start that he was unlikely to win this confrontation. His Wakizashi, hardly longer than a dagger as it was, was no match for the swordsman’s dual-wielded daggers. Only his eyes belied his panic though, his body was moving of its own accord, like a severed spider’s leg, that was twitching in its last throes of anguish.

The thief’s expression changed suddenly all of a sudden. A look of shock and complete surprise flashed through his pale face only brief seconds before all life seemed to pass from his face, along with expression and a copious amount of blood. It was then that Curion noticed Arken standing behind the man, and saw for the first time, the bloodstained tip of his Katana protruding from the crown of the man’s head. “I got tired of waiting” the monk bashfully offered as explanation. A smile crept onto Curion’s face.


**************


Averose stared pointedly into the pool of dense silver liquid in front of him. Images swirled and danced around him, and snatches of conversation lifted to his ears. “…I’ll take eight hundred…too little… sneakthief…Knights of the Royal house…” What could it mean the arch-mage pondered. Did this thief truly not understand the nature of what he was carrying, or was it all an elaborate ruse? If not, who was pulling his string and where was the puppeteer?

“These answers can not be found here”, he declared to no one in particular. The images he had been scrying were but residual after effects, created by the gems the thief had been carrying, and now it seemed, had sold off. A smart move, although perhaps not intentional. He had to find out for himself. Slowly, but with practised ease, the mage’s crackled and worn hands danced out in menacing and erratic gestures. An eidolon of blue surrounded him, and the arcane words he was muttering grew in power and volume. A shimmering outline was gently being carved out in front of him, the image of a room with two occupants greeted him, as he took a deep breath and ceased his incantation.

Complete horror froze the hearts of Dace and Marin as a tall bearded man bearing the crest of the Royal House stepped out of a door that had not previously been there, robed in an aura of justice and finality which as well, was new to this room. “Where have they gone?” the mage asked in powerful and commanding voice. “I have no time to banter words on this matter, ye will tell me now!” Marin recovered from the shock first and tried to force her pudgy legs to support her wait as she pleaded their case. “My Lord, we know not…”

But what she knew not remained a mystery. Averose flung back his arm and shot it forward with a speed that seemed impossible for one his age. Where a hand should have been though, shone a golden spearhead, the heat from which was magnificent and awe-inspiring. The shaft head pierced her heart and scarred the flesh around the wound. The blood pouring from the gaping hole bubbled and smoked as it came in contact with the superheated spear-head and her eyes did not even register the surprise as she expired pitifully.

“I will repeat, and only once more, where have they gone?” Something had changed in the man’s tone, and it seemed to Dace that this was a reasonable request. Why had he not answered the question first time he wondered, especially when this great man’s happiness meant everything to him? Guilt and shame rose within him as tears filled his eyes. He had disappointed the most important person in his world. He would make it up he swore. “They have gone West Master” he replied is his most apologetic voice.

Averose regarded the man tersely weighing his reaction against the powers of his spell. Suddenly his demeanour changed and a fire alit in his eyes. “WITLESS FOOL!” he roared and shot the spearhead of his arm as if he had a harpoon launcher concealed with his sleeve. A smoking stump was all that was left of the man’s neck and the only greeting the servants received when, fearing the meaning of the noises, opened the door. They were mildly puzzled by the rank smell of ozone in the air, although their surprise would have been greater had they seen the shimmering outline of the portal disappearing, heard the faint pop of its dissipation or had the wit to realise that the bag of gems was no longer on the table.

Arken stood slightly mesmerized as the last man fell. Some were groaning in agony, totally incapacitated, whiles others where simply unconscious or dead. He looked around at the carnage they had sown about the place; yet the only difference between the 'before' and 'after' was that the bar was deathly quiet and all the patrons were either down or had fled. "Damn it..." he said at length and turned to face the squire; the only combatant besides himself who was left standing.
He was unsure of what his next move would be, not knowing what to expect from Curion when he caught the dying flickers of a smile on his face. He regarded Curion for a few moments, thinking about the mess he was in. And he was not thinking about the pool of blood at his feet. The squire had obviously fought to survive; fought out of necessity. And so did Arken, but now he was left wondering where he stood with Curion in the wake of this battle. The squire was a danger and a threat to the monk by all accounts, yet each covered the back of the other during the skirmish and Arken had (foolishly?) tossed one of his own weapons aside to aid someone who might as well turn him in or try to apprehend him. That someone was now standing with the very weapon in hand, returning Arken's gaze.
The wide-eyed bartender, frozen to the spot ever since the fight, only watched in utter silence as the two puzzled each other out.

Arken bent low and wiped the blood from his blade on the shirt of one truly fat man, who was laying belly to the sky, apparently passed out from excessive liquor abuse, before he rose and sheathed the weapon. "Run." he said sternly, and with that he spun on his heel and made for the door.

They were both tired and out of breath when they reached an alcove in the city's wall, somewhere near a turn they took from an alleyway to the side. Taking the time to regain their breath, they leant quietly against the wall. But they could not idle too long, for the guards would surely come to investigate the ruckus they had caused at the inn.
"Lets make for the City Gates" Curion said breathlessly.
"You are not yet armed and still wearing that ridiculous disguise, which
by the way is soaked in blood. How do you expect to get out of here?"
Arken retorted. "We are going to have to devise an extraordinary plan in order to escape."

"Very well. We shall leave through the sewers. I know the paths well enough. And no, you may not ask."
A rather pregnant silence followed this announcement, and was finally broken after several minutes by Curion saying in little more than a whisper, "Thanks...for your help back there"
"I live to please..." Arken replied, somewhat sarcastically, as he followed Curion to wherever he was leading them to.

*******

P.S - Please note that this post is endorsed by Ninja-san.

[edit]
Whoops, that looked awful. - Fixed (i think)
[/edit]

...

A gentle breeze wafted through the shrubbery just north of the city. The land experienced a gentle downhill slope towards the north. Passers by would have done well to avoid wafting when in this area, as it was the outlet for the city’s sewer systems, and the smell was far from appealing.

Curion and Arken emerged from the sewers, looking more than slightly worse for wear. Smelling uncannily like something that was passed through the entrails of a large person a very short time ago, the sunlight and gentle tug at their wet clothing greeted them as they emerged from the cesspool. Their escape from the city had gone off without a hitch, if without a hitch meant having little or no supplies, no clear idea of what to do next, and a severely aggravated stomach.

“I think we should hunt” suggested Curion, “and perhaps find some shelter to spend the night in. We can discuss then our next course of action”. Arken nodded and they set off into a thicket of trees.

The sweet and fragrant smell of roast meat could do wonders for healing body and mind, thought Curion and he munched away thoughtfully on the venison he had felled earlier. It seemed ludicrous to try and hunt an animal with no bow or arrow, yet they had managed, thanks largely, he had to admit, to the help of Arken. The monk remained an enigma to him, a diamond in the rough, yet someone whose hands were undoubtedly filthy in some respect. Then again he mused, whose weren’t?

A restful night’s sleep would do him good. These borders were well protected, and the vigil of the knights extended many more miles north. Curion was more worried of encountering a roving patrol or army brigade. He would then have to explain his disappearance, his dereliction of his duties, and the strange company he kept. Of these prospects, none held much appeal. They would ride northeast at dawn’s first light. Curion could not explain why, but North he had to go. Perhaps he was fated to, but the calls of the barbarian lands were tugging at his soul in a relentless match of strength and wills. Some part of him knew, even though he tried to refuse it, that he would come to that land one day, and that he might well die there.

Hi everyone, new addition - don't know if i'm allowed to take such liberties with your characters but if there's a problem pm me I'll make an edit...

**********************************

Barely a stone's throw away - and definitely within range of a deftly thrown blade - a stray gust of wind caught at something midway up a tall pine tree. It billowed out briefly, and then all motion was lost to sight as the shadow crouched down lower, with a fluid motion and perfect balance.

The two men still sat at their modest fire, unaware as they hungrily ate the undercooked meat, both seemingly lost on seperate trains of thought. They were acutely aware of each other's movements nonetheless - fortunate, since it diverted some of their attention away from the possibility of a shadowy observer.

Under the dark, nondescript hood, their hunter's lips curved into a small, self-satisfied smile.

They had been easy enought to track - once they'd entered the sewers there had been only a few possible exit routes. And since the boy seemed intent on hunting down the thief, it only meant the passage North from the city. But now, outside the city walls, it would be a completely different story - far less people to draw away the attention of the mark, fewer corners and shadows to disappear into. And as they moved further north, fewer such tall pine trees to provide a safe vantage point.

But there was still a greater challenge to contend with - the blue-robed monk, Arken. He was a man used to fact that his life depended on unerring alertness to the smallest of details - details that most would hardly notice. And while the boy was unusually keen, he had never had to deal with the skill level of an assassin - something that would have made things so much simpler had he not managed to pick up such a troublesome travelling partner.

Troublesome, but it made the task at hand somewhat more interesting. Still in idle thought, the shadow measured the distance between them, noting the wind, estimating the force necessary for a dagger to slice the man's throat while passing him by into the woods beyond. Of course, it would be difficult, Arken was known to have quite a reaction rate...how fast? It would be interesting to see...

The contracts out on the monk paid very, very well. And Akyra had been approached many times with the offer - reputation had led many prestigious clients to one of the obscure drop-off points, with requests for the head of the blue-robed monk on a pike.

But these requests had never been granted - more certain opportunites were always readily available. And Akryra - though not usually picky about clients - was not one to become a lap dog to authority. A contract like that, once completed, would ellicit a manhunt - recruiters, trying to secure the services of Arken's assassin for exclusive use by the Royal House. And the recruiters were not known to take kindly to refusal.

It was the only way for an assassin to lose their honour. She could not let that happen. She could not afford to be found.

The smile stretched wider on rose-pink lips, tinged with irony. Strange coincidence that she should encounter him for the first time now, on this...errand. And strange also that her mark seemed not to have realized who he was sharing his meal with.

The moon was rising, and the wind picking up again - the air felt swollen, holding the promise of a coming storm. Rain - a welcome screen to sight and sound. The two men would have to abandon their camp site to seek shelter, perhaps taking to the road, hoping to find somewhere to stay the night.

No...these are no ordinary warriors, they would know better than that...

Habit had brought her hand to the dagger sheathed at her hip - instinctive timing, because the ideal moment would present with the onset of the storm, just as they rose to find shelter...

But she moved her hand, willing her muscles to relax. It was not a routine job. And while professional curiosity tempted her to throw the dagger just to measure Arken's response, she stayed her hand, concentrating on her objective.
Even so, from what she had seen, the boy seemed perfectly capable of looking after himself. And if he was travelling with the notorious monk, her presence seemed rather redundant.

Still, she would have to join their party soon. It would be impossible to remain undetected for very much longer. Better that she step forward under pretense than be discovered by accident in her true colours.

She looked again at the young prince - no, it would not do to disclose her true purpose. A young male ego would be greatly resentful at the idea of a woman sent to protect him. Truthfully the idea hardly appealed to her either - she would never have even considered it if not for the wizard.

She would have to assume an identity that could justify reasonable fighting prowess with unquestionable motives. There was not much chance of them realizing her true identity - her advantage was that nobody knew that Akyra Esvai was a woman.

Nobody, except for the damned wizard.

Lightning briefly sketched her silhouette against the darkness, and she turned her face up to look at the clouds that had rapidly gathered, rumbling menacingly, blocking out the view of most of the night sky. Another bolt lit up her features - distinctly foreign, not southern, barbarian or anywhere from the north...

Another gust of wind pulled at the robe - this one caught the hood, pushing it back, revealing pale skin and oddly misplaced indigo eyes that were both strikingly beautiful and extremely disconcerting. Straight black silky hair fluttered out behind her, like a black swan spreading its wings. And as the sky cracked open and the rain fell down in sheets, she dropped noiselessly down from her perch to the undergrowth.


***********************

100% Phoenix!
Thanks for joining in, this is great.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arken craned his neck upwards to look at the dark, watery sky and blinked away the discomfort as the drops of rain plunged into his gray eyes. He continued to stare like this for a few moments, until the smoke of the dying fire started obscuring his vision. Looking to the squire, he found that the young man was glaring, almost in disbelief, at the flames as they withered away before him under the unforgiving downpour of the skies. Curion got up and his body language told Arken that the young knight was planning on seeking shelter somewhere nearby, having no reason to stay by a fire that only served up smoke.

But to Curion's surprise, the monk merely continued to sit motionlessly, his eyes absently lost in the scenery around them. He seemed not to mind in the slightest even as the weather took an ominous turn for the worse; to Curion it appeared as though Arken simply cared no more. The rain came washing down still, matting the monk's hair over his face as his robe grew dark and heavy with moist. It was obvious that he was not planning on moving anytime soon.

Curion wondered at this strange change that had overcome Arken, and stood for a few moments in silent contemplation. It struck Curion then that something was not as it should be, and his inherent paranoia told hinted that perhaps Arken was simply being vigilant, and that he too should not forget that he was no longer encased within the protective caccoon of his realm.

Spreading his consciouss feelings outwards, trying to heighten his senses to their limit to detect any movement, he was suddenly overwhelmed with a sensory overload. It seemed as if the very earth was alive. Curion had never been outside of the safety of the keep before, and had not fully realised the extent of the life outside his own small universe. The small scutling sounds of animals, the screeches of predatory nocturnal birds, and something else, something which prickled along the base of his spine, and fluffed the small hairs on his neck. This was something he did recognise, and unmistakable feeling he got right before something terrible happened. A feeling which could mean only one thing. He was being watched.

Grabbing the hilt of his wakizashi, Curion stalked the campfire, slipping silently into the shadow of one of the birch trees, caling his breathing, and studiously forcing his body into a single taught and tense weapon, which would strike efficiently and with lighhtning speed. A small crack was all that followed the mighty lunge, he had struck bone, or somethign remarkably similar to it. Uncovering the foliage, and rummaging deep within the leaves, his fingers emerged red. He had certainly hit something. Giving an almighty tug, he wrenched the body out of the bush, only to discover it was in fact, a small, curious gazelle. At least he had given proof to the proverb he mused, as he informed Arken that they would not go hungry this night.

"Nice blow," Arken remarked. "Try saving it for when we encounter some real enemies. I hope you plan on finding a way to preserve that animal, for we have no fire to cook it and my stomach is not yet empty enough to feast on raw, wild meat."

"True enough, who would have thought it. The one time we could use the old mage and his ensorcelled fire, the old codger cant be find. Why am I not surprised?

Think we should find some shelter?"

"To what end?" Arken asked somewhat sourly as he poked the coals of the fire with a stick. "I am already soaked and the terrain does not tell of any possible caves nearby. And no, I am not going to sit under some tree, it will do little good. Besides, I have heard tales of men struck by lightning who were charred on the spot for standing underneath those things," he finished. Still, the monk was not without worry. On a night such as this not even the moon found a place in the sky and he was sitting in the pitch dark without a light source, talking to someone who may well turn him in once he discovers Arken's identity. Or worse yet, may even attack him in an attempt to fulfill his duty. Although it was not exactly his choice to travel with the squire, it was not a wise companion for him to have. And now he even made mention of some mage?

Arken rose to his feet and surveyed what little of the surroundings he could discern. Perhaps now was the perfect time to be on his way and leave this troublesome affair behind him. Despite his care-not attitude, Arken wanted no part in this business; if the squire wanted to search the land on some crusade then he could do it on his own. He had enough worries as it were and did not want to involve the man in any of it. Truth be told, just being around the knight put both of them in even more danger. And he would hate for Curion to end up at the wrong end of a blade. Or an arrow. Or a spell. "I'm leaving," the monk said bluntly, his voice somehow clear above the noise of the thundering weather. He turned on his feet and made to leave not only the rickety camp behind, but also everything else he knew.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Right. Hope you can come up with something in response Phoenix. Let me know and maybe i can edit this post. We need to do something to catch up with Ziggy (assuming of course that he wants us to); he seems to be writing solo.

...

Ok let's see now...
---------------------------------------------

There was the sharp snap of a branch breaking, and Arken's head jerked to the left - there was a second's pause, and then a shadow shot out from behind a nearby tree and ran at great speed off into the forest, weaving in and out between the trees - agile, graceful and quick. But not too quick.

Arken gave chase - he was gaining ground faster than she'd anticipated. She ducked her head, pouring her strength into her legs, still weaving, the huge raindrops hitting her face and running off it like cold tears. She turned around briefly to see that the boy Curion had joined the chase, weapon drawn, anticipating a fight. She smiled. She would give him one.

She jumped, catching a low tree branch in passing, swinging around it like a gymnast to land on top of it on her feet, then ran along it and flipped up into another, higher branch. She went towards the tree trunk, pressing her body close to it. The wind no longer made her robe flutter - it was heavy with rainwater, uncomfortably weighing her down. She looked down at the ground from the cover of her hood - they reached the base of the tree, weapons now both drawn and both of them fully alert. They followed the footprints to where they disappeared, and at the same time both looked up into the branches of the tree - and saw her.

She lauched herself into the air, performing a somersault before catching on the branch of the next tree, and then immediately lauched herself to the next, swinging from branch to branch like a trapeze artist. It was extremely uncomfortable - the wet bark was skinning the palms of her hands and her arms were becoming tired - she was after all still carrying a few choice weapons. They ran below her, almost keeping pace with her movements. It was entirely for their benefit - she needed them to think she might come in useful at some stage, she couldn't make it too easy. But there was a tiny little bit of ego involved, though she wouldn't admit it to herself - she didn't want them to think they'd caught her because of something they'd done.

And she was quite enjoying the exercise - the thundering storm, the cold air that burned her lungs and the pure exhilaration of actually having to be chased by someone - lately there had been nobody around sharp enough to actually spot her on their own.

But the swinging was draining her energy, and hardly seemed effective enough to continue it as a tactic - with her last swing she dropped down to earth, her dismount a perfect 10, and continued running through the muddy woodland.

Thunder cracked, and instinct suddenly made her veer left as something flew past her cheek, dangerously close to her head. She was mildly surprized, not having realized either of them were carrying any throwing weapons. And even more so that they had not employed them sooner, when she had been swinging through the trees. It was time to end this. She reached inside her robe, pulling out a small grey ball and squeezing it hard between her finger and her thumb before throwing it onto the wet ground.

The smoke bomb exploded, spreading out a thick dark cloud of smoke that rapidly dissipated in the gale and torrential rain - it was all she needed. It would be better if they didn't see what mishap was about to befall her.

When it cleared her persuers took a second to look around. Eventually a flash of lightning illuminated a figure hanging from one arm onto a high limb of a tree, a good few metres back in the direction they had come from. The figure tried seemingly in a panic to raise the other limb to grab onto the tree branch, but flinched visibly.

Arken and Curion raced towards her - she let go of the branch and landed on the ground with a grimace as they came upon her, the old familiar pain shooting through the shoulder that now hung uselessly at her side. With her good hand, she drew her prized dagger from the scabbard at her hip, brandishing it at the two approaching men - they slowed from their run, readying themselves for combat. Arken sidestepped to the left, putting some distance between himself and the boy, hoping to split her attention. Curion looked at her weapon curiously, dropping a rock he'd been carrying, shifting his attention to the wakizashi he'd used on the gazelle at the campsite.

A rock?

Admiration won out over the mixed responses - it was not easy to accurately throw at a moving target, at distance with something as inaccurately balanced as a randomly picked up rock. And the fact that he'd resorted to it when she'd appeared to be distancing herself from them brought a smile to her face - she felt allowed it, since they wouldn't be able to see it.

The dagger was more a throwing weapon than one for close combat, but she had never liked carrying a sword - it was too difficult to conceal. However to compensate for this is was perfectly balanced for the eventuality of close combat, and it was only slightly shorter than a short sword.

"Are you willing to fight the both of us, injured, and with that?" the boy asked her - it was more a ploy to disrupt her concentration than an offer for the chance of surrender. On arrogant and inexperienced fighters it might have had some effect.

"I'm willing," she replied. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted an expression of unmasked perplexity cross Arken's features. The boy showed no signs of surprise.

"You're a woman," he stated unnecessarily.

"Yes. And I'm willing to fight," she said calmly. She wanted to, actually - the challenge had begun to appeal to her, though she knew she was probably no match for them like this. She squeezed the handle of her weapon tighter, and blood from the cuts on her hands mixed with rainwater and dripped to the ground.
"I will not surrender."

"I can't fight an outnumbered injured woman in good conscience. And it won't be good for my reputation," he said, still trying to derail her train of thought. He obviously was not ready to stand down - he'd read her movements and estimated that she would not be easily defeated.

"Then let me go," she said, her smile creeping into her voice. Arken seemed to be readying himself to make some kind of move while the boy kept her talking. But he shifted tactics, saying,

"We can't let you go until we find out who you're working for." She made no reply. Although his voice had not been threatening his implication was clear. The silence lengthened, punctuated by the pattering of the raindrops and the deafening claps of thunder.

"Why were you watching us?" he asked.

"I was trying to get by unseen, not watching you. I didn't see anything. I don't know anything," she said - quite convincingly she thought. The pain was excruciating - she might have overdone it slightly. Her muscles felt like they were becoming weaker, and though she tried not to show it her hands had started to shake slightly. If they were going to attack her she might not be able to defend herself. Of course, it was all better for the look of the thing but she was rather irritated with herself.

"Then why did you run?" It was the boy this time - through the haze of pain she was starting to lose her concentration, she had taken too big a risk...

"I was passing by, I didn't see anything," she said, overemphasising the effects of the pain a little. It would be better if they attacked while overestimating her weakness. Arken had resumed circling her - he was almost behind her now. Soon...

"You weren't just passing by. Who are you?" he asked. She turned so that she faced Arken, focussing all of her attention on Curion behind her. She hadn't expected them to fall for that act, but she still made herself appear slightly more unsteady than she actually was. She had still not found a satisfactory lie to tell them. She was stalling. And she knew enough to know that Arken would not kill her until he found out what she knew, and who she knew. It would do until she thought of a better plan to get them to take her with them.

Then Curion rushed at her, like she knew he would - she leapt high into the air in a backflip, landing just behind him. And though he had realized what she was doing it had been too late to recover. She held her blade up to his throat, a warm sense of satisfaction creeping over her. But the boy rammed his elbow into her limp right arm - she winced, and infuriated she pressed the blade close against his skin, drawing a thin trickle of blood. He froze.

"Not the response you'd hoped for?" she hissed into his ear. She looked quickly at Arken, who was watching her closely, trying to think of his next move.

Curion hesitated, then rammed his elbow again into her arm - this time much harder. Caught completely off-guard, she lowered the blade from his throat just as he brought his arms up, having dropped the awkward weapon, breaking her hold on him. He spun to face her and grabbed the injured arm with both hands and pulled it, locking it painfully. Still holding tightly onto her wrist with one hand, he placed his elbow at the back of her upper arm and leaned on it, forcing her to her knees. The cold metal of the monk's blade was under her chin - she was released, and she looked up to see the boy wiping the blood from his neck with his hand, looking slightly annoyed.

She had underestimated him. Yet again with grudging admiration, she regarded the boy who had outdone her. She would not underestimate him again.

"Raise your hands, keep them where I can see them," Arken ordered her. She obeyed. He turned to face Curion.

"Disarm her."

Curion nodded, then picked up the dagger that she had dropped when she clutched her arm in pain. Then he pulled off her heavy hooded robe, and removed the small throwing knife in her boot and the throwing stars that were on her belt, and examined the inner pockets in her robe, pulling out the small colour-coded balls and the unmarked vials. He took the pack off her back, looking briefly through the contents before throwing everything inside and pulling the drawstring shut.

The rain plastered her hair to her head and her clothes to her body, and she started shivering out of cold, and exhaustion. She looked up into the grey eyes of the man holding her hostage - he looked back at her, as if unsure what he should do next.

"Now what?" Curion asked him.

---------------------------------------------------------------
Whew, okay got her in - where to next?

...

Oops, sorry Ziggy man, my bad...

As for plans to catch up, still in the works, sorry may be a while...

Arken continued to regard the woman before him; his sword arm had not moved an inch. He watched her under the cover the heavy rainfall and darkness, somewhat perplexed by the female - Judging from her bearing and the way she carried herself, it was obvious to him that she was no mere human girl, or at the very least, not a normal one. Despite the noise from their surroundings, Arken was oblivious to it all as the silence grew longer still.

His instinct told him that she was extremely dangerous at best, and certainly not one to be underestimated or trifled with. What information he gathered during their pursuit, also told the monk that she was by no means simply passing by. No doubt that she was smart and cunning, and neither Arken nor Curion knew of her intent.

He looked to her hands, hanging loosely at her sides as the blood drained into the ground. And he noticed that she seemed to be shaking slightly. He could not understand why the woman would take to such foolish actions, especially in this weather. Against his better judgment, he took some pity on her. "She comes with us.. for now," he sighed at length as he turned to Curion, his blade somehow still pointing precisely at her.

******************

The floor is yours, Ninja

Curion simply nodded as the rain pelted down. Having chosen to walk down the lonely road of a knight's calling, he was no stranger to hardship, but he also considered himself above the average warrior given his ability to think. This ability told him now to get out of the cold rain, seek shelter and food. He could not help but feel that too much energy was expended this night and for too little gain.

Later, around the campfire he had built, Arken sat, rigid as stone. A silent and meditating figure, radiating withheld energy and purpose. Perhaps it was his monkish nature, but Curion could not help but feel that Arken was most intimidating when he was doing nothing - as if bristling with potential energy, waiting for something to come near enough to discharge like static.

He slowly left the light and warmth of the fire, to better watch the two of them, perhaps give them a chance to speak, but more importantly, to muse upon his own feelings and plan the next stage of their journey. Calling upon his innate blood, he heightened his senses and clarified his visions, seeking some sign as to her purpose, trying to gleam from her bearing, that which she would not reveal in words. Curion realised after a while that she was the epitome of the phrase tight-lipped. Her actions and bearing gave away almost as much as her words, which was to say, pitifully little. Perhaps this too, spoke more than she would have thought. She was obviously well trained, and good training either spoke of clear purpose, or financial backing.

It was at this time thar Curion noticed the firm set in Arken's jaw which was uncommon for him, being soft natured and at peace in his meditations. It struck him suddenly that Arken must be keeping an unbreakable vigil on her, though whether out of weariness or stoic and grudging respect he could not say. She very nearly escaped them, and in truth, had done them no harm. The conscience that had been so quiet within him, suddenly flared and sought to enflame his sensibility in its righteouss anger. These were not the actions of a knight, especially not a holy knight. Oh how his master would punish him had he seen Curion's actions thus far tonight. Albeit by luck, he had partially defeated the woman, this meant their relationship was more than victor and loser. Especially now that she was coming along. As long as she appreciated who wore the pants in this party he mused.

Walking over to her, his shadows lengthened as he approached the glowing embers and tiny flames in the fire. She seemed to come out of a reverie, and her startled demeanour was compounded by her eyes which opened abnormally wide. She was suprised. Interesting. It occured to Curion for the first time, that had she not been holding a blade to his throat the first time they had met, he would have been enchanted by her eyes. Uneccessary would a spell have been if he had but to look into her deep orbs, mesmerised bv something...pain? He oculd not tell.

The gentle perfume she wore, mingled with the spice wood they had used in the fire. The wood was unusually young and wet, given the small copse of trees they were in, and the resultant smoke was flowing around them like a blanket, cacooning them each in their own thoughts. The flames on the fire were kept low to avoid them choking in their sleep. Curion had to admit, that the fragrance of the spice wood, and the sweet smell of her perfume, were not an entirely unpleasant combination. He would remember to ask her later what fragrance it was, assuming they were ever on speaking terms.

Firming his resolve, he took one of her hands in each of his, and closed his eyes, bowing his head as if in prayer. Had his eyes been open, he would have seen the shocked expression change to gentle amusement. She was obviously no stranger to pain, and had fully intended to suffer through it without complaint. Arken's right eye popped open with light intrigue at this women. Definitely more to her than met the eye.

As the power of Curion's ability seeped throught the flesh on her hands, tissue knitted itself as the blemishes on her hands dissapeared, consumed in spiritual fire. This ability was not enough to save lives, but was more than adequete for healing scraped hands. Curion completed the healing, stood up and walked away without a further glance. The camp was once more cast into stony silence.

They travelled across the great plains without incident, though on foot the journey was long and arduous. It had been two days since they’d first captured her, but they still watched over her with the same vigilance as they had that first night. They were not planning on letting their guard down.

The sun built itself up to its zenith – it would be noontime soon, and the oppressive, almost organic heat would settle on the windless countryside with a choking heaviness that would not dissipate until late evening. Soon they would stop for another break. She welcomed the thought, even though she would have liked to get out of this place as soon as possible. She hated the vast openness of the area, she was in plain sight for at least a mile on all sides. It was not something she was used to. It was also - in a way - very irritating. The landscape had no personality. All that could be used to describe it was wide semi-green space, and the heat that oozed along its surface and over her skin making it glisten in an oily way, like she'd been shined using slightly too much polish.

They walked across the open space in a silence that was not really uncomfortable, each of them entertaining their own thoughts. Curion walked ahead of her, in a sort of youthful impatience to reach their destination. Arken walked behind her, the better to observe her with, still hoping to glean some information as to her true purpose.

Strangley enough, there had been no further questioning as to her presence that night in the woods. Perhaps they’d come to the conclusion that it was futile to try. Or perhaps they’d realized that whatever she did tell them would only be a cover story.

She sighed inwardly and then rolled her slightly stiff seperated shoulder. The tenderness was disappearing and she was almost as good as new – though she was a fast healer, she couldn’t help thinking that the boy’s healing magic had had some positive effect.

Of course, I hardly have a right to call him a boy – the age difference is not so much…

A wry smile spread across her features. Of course it would be easier to swallow his capture of her if she stopped thinking of him as a boy. Her pride still smarted a little.

But she would be patient. Sooner or later an opportunity would present, and she would be able to gain some of their trust. And while they would never fully trust her, it hardly mattered as long as they let her travel as one of them, and giving her – at the very least – her dagger back. She still had not grown accustomed to the lightness on her hip. It burned into her awareness constantly.

They travelled on – she’d guessed at their next destination., though they had been inclined not to discuss such things in front of her. They would go to Culven, the bandits’city. It would be a good place to get some horses without too many problems. Or questions. And thankfully it was less than a day’s journey away. If they kept their current pace, they might even make it there by late this evening.

Soon. Very soon the time would present.

...

With a gentle flick, a tiny could of powder wound its way through the air to land on the candle. The struggling flame surged up in sudden anger and colour before calming once more and resuming its casual flickering.

The Mage repeated the summons a few more times, trying to ascertain why the rogue was not answering his summons. Perhaps she was being detained. 'No' he thought o himself, shaking his slightly. She was too good for that, and too well protected. 'Ah' he chuckled 'and that most excxellent dagger of hers'. He gently fingered a depressed cars on his side. Anotehr flick, another surge, and his patience was spent.

Standing up slowly from his medative position, arching his back to click it back into place and stretching, he decided he would have to see for himself what was going on. He plunged his hand in his concealed pocket, which was magically enchanted to have a great space on its innter surface, than on its out one. An ingeneous invention though he admitted it himself. Removing an onyx wand, that was curled into the crude shape of an orcish finger. He pointed it at the wall, an action that was immediately succeeded by a fizzle and am impotent pop. Gesticulating wildly, he wove it in the air, eventually causing it to trail a glow behind it. Gesturing at the same wall, a fiery outline of an oval formed before him. He marched forward through it, and emerged within sight of a campsight.

He saw three people there, and upon closer examination, determined that his spell was successful and that they were also unaware of him as of yet. Muttering arcane words and syllables of command, he forced his skin into a translucent form, invisible to all but magical means. He stalked closer to the camp. Surprising her from behind, he clapped his hand over her mouth to prevent her from screaming. He tapped her shoulder then, with small and jerky movements, transmitting a message in their secretly developed code. "Tell them you need to go. Make an excuse, your bladder maybe. Meet me in the wood, one hundred paces back, I will mose us from there...and hurry"

She tapped back, "I hate it when you do that. What is the matter? Why have you come?"
"Don't argue" he relayed "meet me, now!"

And with that, he was gone, as if he was never there. The determined lines of her jaw, was Arken's only clue that something was amiss.

She left her two travelling partners behind in the hazy orange glow of the campfire, walking hurriedly back, and out of sight. There was nothing to conceal her from their view but the thick shadow of a moonless night, and the distance she placed between them. One hundred paces.

They could not object to her excuse, though Arken seemed to have noticed something amiss. He had been watching her carefully as she got up to leave but had said nothing. No doubt he was counting the seconds till her return.
The mage was waiting for her, watching her approach. She tried, but could not conceal her annoyance. His very presence jeopardised her mission, surely he could have waited until she'd contacted him?

"What are you doing here - you realise the position you are putting me in?"
"Nothing you cannot handle, I'm sure." The faint hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, adding to her irritation.
"That's not the point," she said, her tone even. "Now why are you here?"
"Only to check up on your progress. You did not answer my summons."
"Because I had no opportunity."

She did not add that she resented his magical interference in the matter. She did not appreciate any of his interference. But she'd agreed to his condition of providing updates, though this went against the professional rules she'd established for herself. So much of this job went against her rules. But she was in no position to be making bargains with this man, and she knew it.

"I notice, Miss Esvai, that you are unarmed. Why is that?"
"An assassin is never truly unarmed, sir. But it was necessary for my successful insertion into the party. They are currently holding me as a prisoner."
He seemed surprised. "Prisoner?"
"Yes. Otherwise I could not ensure they would take me with them as a matter of course. They would see no use for me and simply turn me away."
He smirked. "I could think of any number of reasons why Curion might find a use for you."
She bristled, and the wizard's taunting smile only grew wider. She got the distinct impression he'd only said it to infuriate her. She had a sudden, almost irrepressible urge to strangle him.
"I don't work like that," she said tightly.
He considered this, then seemed to accept it.

"As an unarmed bodyguard you hardly seem much use," he said sternly. He was unhappy with her course of action.
"As I told you, I do not consider myself unarmed." That was a blatant lie, but she hoped her confidence in the statement would be enough to convince him. Of course, she could arm herself at any time - had she had a death wish.
"Besides, the ward you hired me to protect seems to be very capable of protecting himself. I don't see why you need me at all." She hesitated before adding, "Especially if he has the power you say he has - "
"That is not the point," he snapped, cutting her off. He seemed edgy about it - she'd noticed it before, but she still didn't understand why.
"Tell me about the third member of your party."

She bristled as his questions seemed to check off on a list that which she most desired to keep hidden. She knew it was futile though. "He is an enigma" she began. "Obviously possessing of extraordinary training and potential. Nothing I can't handle though" she added reassuringly. Quailing under his level gaze she resumed "I don't know if you took the time to mark his garb, he is a fallen monk by all accounts, although I dont know why, so don't bother asking. He is tighter than a southern clam, and doesn't seem to trust anyone. It is strange though. There is something at play between him and the boy, something more than simple common purpose. Will you not reveal the nature of their quest to me?"
"No" he said simply, as if the simple statement would bring closure to her curiosity.

A long pause followed between them, each weighing up their options, digesting the new information, thinking of the best way to deliver a final parting shot.


"Well, that will suffice for now. I will make contact with you again...perhaps your standing in this little travel party will have improved by then?"
He didn't expect an answer, and she didn't give him one.
"I expect they'll be wondering about you - best that you return. Good night, la Virago."

Without waiting for a response he winked and took a few steps back into what looked like a liquid mirror that had appeared from nowhere behind him. The mirror swirled like a pebble had been dropped into it, and settled into stillness, at one with the air. He was gone.

La Virago.

How did he learn that name?

The mention of it had made her clench her fists, her nails digging into her palms. He just wanted to prove to her he was by no means bluffing. Her wanted her to remember her place.

He had led her to believe he knew only of her history since she'd landed here, and travelled up from the south.

If he knew that name, he knew everything.

I suppose it is my turn then

=====================================================

"That is some bladder you have there, woman." Arken remarked with open cynicism when she came into sight once more, having counted almost every second of her absence and noticing that her attention somehow seemed to be lacking at the moment, as if shaken by something. The look she gave him in response was one of pure venom and he could not help but think that he spotted some measure of anger and frustration in her glare.
He returned his eyes to the burning fire. Shit. Everything about this situation simply felt out of place. And dangerous. The young knight he traveled with seemed like a good sort. The least Arken could do was not to get the squire involved in his affairs.. assuming this had anything to do with him. By the blood, everything was getting so complicated so quickly.
He thought about simply getting up and walking away. Neither of them had any reason to stop him or follow him. Or did she, perhaps? Surely the woman's presence had nothing to do with Curion. And if she somehow opposed the monk's decision to leave it would indicate some hidden agenda on her part - But then again, Arken suspected her to be smarter than that. If he left, as skilled and talented as the squire may be, she would probably leave the young knight's corpse in her wake and Arken would most likely find himself at the wrong end of her blade sooner or later. At least this way he could keep an eye on her.
Then there was the issue about the stolen 'artifact'. Should he even bother concerning himself with it? He flashed out his sword and jabbed it deep into the earth, shifting some of his weight on the blade. I'm getting too old for this he mused to himself, even though he only recently turned close to his thirties.

=====================================================

Sorry, i really can't think of anything to write. It's actually a bit of a wonder that i even wrote anything at all.

Well, this will probably be my last reply until early 2004 - The company is closing today and so i go along with it (no internet access at home). I guess i will see/read you people in 2004 then.
Have a spledid Christmas, and a smashing new year.

- Toodles and Farewell...

He stood leaning on his earthed katana, regarding her. Her muscles tightened, herstrength compressed and ready to be released at a moments notice, like the coiled stored power of a spring.

But though his stance was challenging – threatening almost – his manner was not. He was looking at her in contemplation only, though that was not much more comforting. Eyes the colour of thunderstorms fixed on her, almost alight with the jagged intensity of his study. She dropped her gaze, willing her muscles to relax and forced herself to sit down at the fire, taking some deep breaths. There was no fight to be had here.

She was edgy. She needed to calm herself.

But things had been set in motion that she had no control over, things that had forced her into this uneasy alliance with these two men. They marched onward on a quest in which she was not even armed with the knowledge of what drove them forward. She was trapped here in a position of submission, at the beck and call of a sadistic wizard who had just revealed that she had far more to lose in this than she’d originally thought.

Lost in thought, she did not register that Curion also watched her, and watched the interaction between her and Arken with a certain amount of interest.

She found herself gazing into the fire, into the centre of it where it burnt hottest, almost blue. She thought of Derin. He was still safe, she knew – but for how much longer?

Why are we still on these plains? Why do we travel so slowly?

The impatience showed on her face, seeming to grow and fade in intensity in time to the dancing light of the flames. But she allowed the energy to drain away from her, feeling the soothing breeze that would dissipate by morning and letting the calm of the milky moonlight leach into her skin. She sighed, and her lungs filled with the tranquility of late-night air. And she ignored implicitly the radiant animosity from Arken, the prodding inquisitiveness from Curion.

She locked them out and retreated into herself, into the Void. And there she managed to calm herself, to take stock of her situation more objectively and to regain some focus. Her breathing slowed. Her heart obeyed her in a way that human hearts normally wouldn’t. She centred herself, finally.

It felt right, she had not returned here since her capture.

At the fireside the light wind blew wisps of hair into her eyes, and the flames leaned over like swaying reeds. But she did not move, her eyes fixed on the heart of the fire. The agitated aura that had surrounded her since her return had melted away under the influence of some calming inner glow.

When she returned Arken had settled into meditation, and Curion was making ready to go to sleep.
She bundled up her robe as a makeshift pillow and stretched herself out on the ground.

She had been trained as more than just an assassin, and more than a warrior of brute force. As far as brute force went, she often found herself lacking. But though she was many things, she was still only human.

But not according to those who had given her that name – those who could not understand the nature of what she had trained to be.

They called her “la Virago” – the female warrior. But they thought her more than that – they thought her the spirit of an ancient evil. A legend reanimated. It was easier to accept than that an ordinary woman had been taught by a mere student and surpassed them all. And those perpetuating the lies had more than enough reason to want her dead. And yes, to want Derin dead.

But for now there was nothing to be done, but to play out her part till the next best opportunity to make some kind of move.

She closed her eyes, waiting for sleep to overtake her.

--------------------------------------
That's all from me for a while, later everybody.

C'mon boys and girls, we should not let this story die. If we do, i'll be the only one posting here and then it will only turn into a disaster, understood?

Now where do we go from here? Need someone with better ideas than i to help out here. I'll just kick off, or something.

***********************************************************************

Arken welcomed the heat of the sun the next morning as it brought warmth to joints otherwise pained by the cold of the night. His appearance seemed that of a begger, or a homeless person; ragged, unkempt and moist. He did not care.

He raised his blade, still clutched in his grasp, before him, staring at its reflective surface in dark fascination as it dripped with remaining dew and rain from the previous night. He looked past it to the remains of the rickety camp, and to the two traveling companions still lying still on the ground. He chuckled silently, and bitterly, in spite of himself, having awoken -as usual- some time ago before dawn, for some unknown reason. He was fast becoming an old geezer, he laughed, and realised the truth of his words as he regarded the young ones nearby. They would soon rouse as well, if they were not already awake, that is.

...I'm all for it guys. Just...lately got my PM connection at home severed. Is all good but my posts will be a little slow. And is better to reach me by e-mail.

OOC: Have had numerous chats with Yak and Phoenix and we are committed to keeping this going. I will be practising numerous narrative styels and so on, so forgive me if my writing seems stylisitcally inconsistent but I think the point of this thing is to hone skills and improve our writing. With that, let's continue shall we?

***

Curion lay on his side, the hard and uneven ground burning pains into the side of his body, as the chilly morning air caused his breaths to billow out in white clouds. The pain in his side was a neccessary evil, for he did not want to give anyone the impression that he had not slept the night soundly, lost in his pleasant dreams.

No direction, no meaning, no point and no destination. He felt weighted down with the knowledge, as if he had waded out into an icy stream in full armour and could not clamber back onto the shore, back to safety. They had chased this thief, and for what? They knew not what the stolen object was, knew not the identity of the thief, his purpose in stealing it or what was intended for the item. They had run out on a fools errand, rushed in without a thought, and were caught in the net of their own folly. The knowledge was a bitter tasting losenge that he had been sucking on all night.

Stirring and the smell of the rekindled fire alerted Curion to the presence of at least one other waking member of their band. Shifting slightly to his left bearing some of the weight off of his exhausted hips. He feared he would bear the bruises of lying for such a long time in this prone position, but the sacrifice was neccessary he rationalised, he knew what he had to do, and by the Gods he would do it.

Knowing that they had no direction, no leader and no means to catch this thief, it was imperitive that they discuss, in more than mutterings and overt gazes, the next course of action. Curion knew nothing of the area. There was nothing to be seen for miles on end. Being born in a city, to a fine family, Curion had never taken the time to appreciate such novelties as scenery, sunlight, a gentle breeze or the cacophony of mating birds. These sights, sounds and smells made him realise, for perhaps the millionth time, that he was far from home, out of his element and very much alone. While Arken and he had their own kinship, that of brothers in arms, they knew nothing of each other...and Curion wondered if he could really trust the monk. Instinctively, his hand crept nearer to his sword. And what of the thief? She was beautiful yes, as a nymph from the stories he had read, or a Goddess from the tails of old. But something struck him as...too beautiful. He could not place it, and it frustrated his mind, to struggle with a problem and not be able to come to a conclusion. She was an enigma at once repulsive, and yet, at the same time, fascinating.

Curion stretched out his arms, yawned audibly and none to attractively and made a large show of getting up and wiping the non-existent sleep out of his eyes. The itchy stubble on his chin needed grooming, and his hair needed cleaning. Curion had become used to the finer things in life, and depsite his commitment to being a knight, felt acutely the difficulty of life outside of his keep. Returning from his morning routines, Curion approached Arken tentatively, but with a resolute expression.

"We have need to speak...friend" he began. "We know not where we are going, whom we are chasing and moreover, what we would do if we even caught him. We have no supplies, we are living off the land, which is to say not living at all and for what? Vengeance? Duty? I need to know what it is you seek to gain from this fool's errand and how we are to achieve it should we try? I ask not for a tale of your history, or for you to share that which you have not come to terms with" Curion's eyes farted over his robes "but I do ask that you speak plane and make known your intent. Once I have your assurances, I suggest we question...her". Curion's final word hung like a guillotine.

...

...

im still in but its going to be hard. i would write your ideas down man, i dont have the time to invest into a story full time...

if it happens at all,i will be going slowly...soz mate

Would it be okay if I started off on a tangent with a new character in between? Or should I wait for things to sort themselves out first?

may as well.

I'm just going to re-cap here for a bit. This is where we were at the last time:



********************************************************************

"And what makes you think that I have not come to terms with it yet?" Arken rose threateningly to his feet, dragging his sword behind him; to which Curion instinctively tensed in response.

But there was scarce enough time for him to take another breath when a form whistled by them, charging straight for Arken, who somehow expected the attack, or at the very least, was not surprised by it. They clashed in a brilliant flare of sparks and iron, with Arken having to work rigorously to find some form of defence in the midst of the surprise chaos. The two combatants tangled weapons at an alarming pace, with the foe still maintaining the momentum from his initial charge. Arken moved to the best of his abilities to keep his attacker at bay, but his opponent had a significant reach advantage - Not only was his polearm much longer, but it was swung and manoeuvered expertly, allowing him to strike powerfully and defend quickly.

It was an observation that did not escape Curion, who almost got knocked over in the warpath. The squire scuttled about on the ground to find the Wakizashi, kicked it up from the dirt with his foot and in one, circular motion sent it spinning into the conflict. The hilt of the weapon crashed into the back of the assailant's helmet and bounced up into the air, sending the warrior stumbling forward. Arken tried to capitalise and spun about his opponent, coming to a stop at his back just in time to catch the descending Wakizashi. He jabbed the shorter of the weapons upwards, and back, hoping to pierce the attacker's shoulders, and immediately swung around again to the other side, cutting a line for the stomach with his Katana.

Both moves were met with parries.

He avoided a sweep attack from his enemy's back foot and delivered a kick of his own at the gut. A kick which got caught before it could do any real damage. The enemy fiercely stabbed out with the Zanbattou, and if not for Arken's flexibility to dodge underneath it, he would have taken it in the upper chest. As he recovered from the kick and came about, he received a thundering elbow to the side of the face, narrowly avoiding a slice that might have taken half his face clean off.

He was skilful. Far more so than Arken had imagined - He had made a mistake to underestimate this opponent. Despite their contrasts, he was easily Arken's equal, if not better. And the thought did not sit well with him. But Arken had studied his oponent and figured that he might be able to beat him under the right circumstances.

He took a leap back and the two enemies faced each other for a few seconds. "You must be the one, then?" he said as he flexed his left shoulder.
"It is I, Asura!" the man bellowed in an unnecessarily loud voice. "I stand before thee as judge, jury and executioner! You may come peacefully, but it will not change your fate."

********************************************************************

My apologies for the delay - Sorry guys.
Made some last-minute changes to some of it. Hope it all still fits. Not too sure about spelling, though.

Anyway:
Ninja... Phoenix... You know what to do! (err... I think)

Love it Yak, let's get this sucker moving!

---------------------------------------

She watched in astonishment the newcomer's face as he glared at his adversary in self-satisfaction. He was good. Very good.

Another scenario she was totally unprepared for. But she knew her mission, was certain of her purpose. She had no loyalty to the mysterious monk. For the sake of her mission she would fight on his side, if it would gain her any respect from her mark.

Her arms tensed and she almost reached down to her hip before realizing there was nothing there. But she did not need a weapon to be valuable in combat - all she needed was to convince the attacker that she was a threat.

She could manage that.

But it would do no good to simply enter this fray unannounced. They had no reason to expect any help from her.

She watched the three men carefully. Then she stood slowly up, catching Curion's eye and sending him a silent message, hoping it would not soon lead to her own weapon piercing her heart, and turned to face the newcomer as an adversary. He noticed but did not seem in the least bothered.

Then she watched again, and waited. She focussed her energy, waiting for the next move that would decide the course of the battle. Her concentration and determination registered with the intruder, as she hoped it would. Suddenly he seemed to take a little more notice - though still unruffled, intent on the silent monk in front of him.

------------------------------------

Over to you, Ninja.

Beautiful! But i think you have confused me there a bit... will message/mail you.

- Edit -
Uhm... what happend to that paragraph? There's something missing from my last post. I could have sworn...
#@$#$!!!
Never mind

Recovering from his initial shock and using Arken's short dialogue with the newcomer as a breather, Curion carfeully circled the pair, drawing his weapon, hoping to keep his opponent off guard through the virtue of not making clear who his opponent was. Though he knew he had not a fleeting chance against the newcomer in a single confrontation, his chances were immeasurably enhanced with Arken and the girl by his side. Arken had saved him and he intended to hold to his friendship.

Curion suddenly charged forward, his short weapon flailing wildly in an attack he intuitively knew the newcomer would parry. His hope was more to startle the newcomer with his intent, rather than any displays of great swordsmanship. Curion pulled out of the move early and signalled for Arken to back him up, once more pressing the attack with a practised and measuring routine. His sword flipped in and out, pressing for deep and for the shoulder, then swining out in an arc to come in from a different angle. Curion hoped that his measured routine would have the added advantage of tiring his opponent slightly since he was using a polearm.

Moving carefully around in a measured circle, Curion tried his level best to meanouver himself and Arken to a position where they could press the newcomer and keep his attention off of their lady friend. Curion had caught her eye and had realised as well that in her lay their biggest hopr for victory. Curion bided his time, hoping against hope that the newcomer would not simply end his annoying strikes with his death.

The young knight’s sudden charge into the fray slightly unbalanced the newcomer – still he did well to defend against the blade with skill, strength and speed. She could see Curion’s intention. And she was more than slightly surprised that he should place his faith in her so easily. He was too much of a knight. He believed too much in honour.

She measured the distance between herself and the ongoing battle, trying to gauge his strengths and weaknesses, waiting for her moment. How best could she dispose of the intruder? She would have to do just that – quickly enough to be a hero. Still, it had been quite a while since she had been required to engage in unarmed combat.

But she trusted in herself, and switched off her thought processes, tuning in to her fighter’s instincts. Curion jabbed in and out, his sword coming out in an arc to strike again. He and Arken struck in a windmill of blades, parried each time. The mystery fighter was using his reach advantage to the full in keeping his two attackers at bay. Together her companions were draining his energy– his muscles were tiring with the effort and he might soon burn himself out in any case. Clearly that was Arken’s intent. But she could not let the opportunity to make an impression pass her by. She recruited every muscle and every ounce of strength she had. He was still aware of her, she could see it. He shifted his balance to ground himself, seeming to anticipate an attack. Still he parried the attacks from the front. She realised with a shock that he fought the way she had been taught to – not with his mind or his senses but with his entire being as a unit. Could he read the changes in her energy, like she could his?
It didn’t matter. Her moment came.

She ran at him, so light on her feet that no man could possibly hear her approach. He sensed it – there was a shift in his energy as he prepared for it. Her two companions fought harder, hoping to force his attention away from her – he almost paid dearly for his loss of focus. But his mind was not as much in his battling as his instinct was.

She was almost upon him when he swung his pole arm towards her in a wide arc, forcing the two men to retreat momentarily to avoid it. She slid in under it, in closer where she needed to be. And then rolled to her side, narrowly avoiding the blunt handle being driven downwards, feeling the impact as it struck the earth. She got up onto her feet and was forced to leap into the air as he spun his weapon again, in a complete circle that nearly cut her down at the knees. Too close. He was too quick, even these full-circle attacks barely left her with any advantage. Her comrades again were forced to momentarily retreat.

She let out the ancient kiai war cry – a shriek from somewhere beyond her physical body that seemed to echo against the air. Her fellow warriors froze. And her adversary froze for no more than a second.

She stepped inward and delivered two vicious blows with the side of her hand – one to each side of his neck – and he grunted in pain and surprise as his weapon fell to the ground, his paralysed arms swinging uselessly. She bent down and retrieved it, pointing the blade at his throat. She calmed her heart, beating rapidly with the adrenaline of victory and the old love of combat – a familiar satisfaction she hardly allowed herself anymore.
She exhaled, the flow of time returning to its regular rhythm. She focussed on the man in front of her – his eyes burned with fury and frustration. Determination. He was by no means beaten yet.

She exhaled again.

-----------------------------------------

Whew, finally, hope this meets with all the requirements.

He dreamt of a snake. A snake against a fine black sand that seemed volcanic in origin, coiling and uncoiling in an unnatural motion, appearing greasy in the pale starlight.

It came slowly closer – more writhing than slithering, as though it were close to its death.
He was mesmerized by its movement. As he stood transfixed, it briefly caught his eye and he felt a sharp pain like a hot needle through his brain. Suddenly he became aware of his own terror. It came closer still - serpentine, with an intent that was neither animal nor human. He felt his body trembling. Then convulsing, as though the animals stare had poisoned him. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He felt the cool smoothness of it as it wrapped around him, squeezing tighter. Smelled the decay on its breath. And he gave in, relaxed and surrendered to it.

A red hazy dark hovered in front of his vision. And in it he saw a mirage of the animal, it eyes glittering.

Something inside him pulled taught, ripped, flapped free in the storm of his mind. His thoughts scattered into panicked terror. His heart raced, his muscles quivered uselessly. It stared with malevolent brightness and he felt as if the back of his head was being screwed open.

He died.

And then he woke up in his tent, gasping and spluttering through the blood choking him. His eyes were open but he saw nothing – a word glowed and filled his vision, as though it had been tattooed on his eyeball.
Dellhow.

He stood up, wiped his mouth and dressed himself as quickly as he could, muttering a prayer of thanks for the vision. Even now the fading answer was scrawled across his vision in divine script.
Where the stolen treasure is. Where the bastard thief has run.

His vision was returning rapidly now, as he fastened his breastplate and sheathed his sword. He was used to arming himself without being able to see. Then he left the tent and stood outside surveying the campsite. The men all slept except for a few on duty – the campfires had long died out and the night sounds of the plains held nothing more than a few crickets.

He turned to face the guard who had been outside his tent and was now standing to attention.
“Rouse the men. There’s no time to be lost.”

The guard saluted and walked off. And soon the bell sounded, his men hurriedly rousing themselves and making ready for an urgent departure.
His second in command made his way to his side – the man looked as though he had never been asleep.

“Our destination Sir Kiros?”
“We hurry to Dellhow. I’ve been given a message, Izlude.”
Izlude nodded as though he’d expected as much. Izlude. He, at least, had never lost faith.
“The thief has been…unfortunate,” Kiros continued. “We must use this opportunity to gain as much ground as possible.”
“Yessir. God works to our advantage sir.”

Kiros became aware of a few of the men listening to their conversation. He turned to face his troops, and addressed them in a voice for a larger army than was present, and that carried across the plains.

“A message came to me!” The busy sounds fell to instant silence.

“A message that ensures justice for the Church, and a victory in the name of our King. A message revealing the thief and his location to me. Struck down by misfortune, or more than likely the hand of God. A swift death would be too kind once we find them!” A rowdy chorus of cheers went up – the size of which might have been that of an army of thousands, and not a mere two hundred.
“The thief is injured. And he travels with a woman – a heathen witch who aids him.” He spat, and the silence replaced the cheers, spreading out like a tangible force.
“Their true purpose was not revealed to me. But it can be no force of goodness or purity that would lead them to treason against the King, the Church, or God.”
He paused. Looked at his men and into their souls, and knew that they once again belonged to him. The unease and uncertainty that had come when his vision had failed was banished. They would die for him now. As it should be.

“It is not our duty but our divine mission to bring them to justice. And to bring the wrath of the Church upon those who would conspire to such sacrilege.”
The cheer roared again, rolling out like thunder. His horse was lead to him and he put on his cape – a crimson cape with the symbol of the white ankh of his army, and mounted his steed.

“To Dellhow!”

--------------------------------------------

Sorry I got bored. Anyone still playing this game with me? I was loving it, but can't handle the waits in between. Lemme know what's goin on k?
Later.

Candy

Fuck it.

I think I agree with you there...to recap I often reread and it doesn't really flow very well as it is, aside from taking so long. Hmmm.

I'm hoping we can shake things up real soon at any rate, and bring you into things a little Ziggy.

Asura breathed heavily, having being tired by the physical exertions of their battle. He eyed the woman before him with a measure of both admiration and anger. No, not anger, astonishment - Fear. What magic was that? he wondered. But the savage determination behind his own two orbs did not wane. He was a warrior among warriors, and his resolve -not to mention his abilities- were solid and unyielding. He would find escape somehow.

But these people... who were they? The young squire and this mysterious woman with them. Arken had seemingly gathered himself some capable companions, but why? And why would these two youngster willingly risk their lives for that bloody man? He turned his gaze beyond the woman and locked stares with Arken. The man he was sent to kill. And kill him he would - Upon his own blood he swore that he would kill that man. Right now, though, he was very much immobilised. Even for someone like him, acting in aggression right now would be foolish, and under the circumstances might even cost him his life. He dropped to the ground and took a seat right where he was standing, falling into an almost uncharacteristic calm.
"What do you want from me?" he said, casting his eyes toward Curion. "I can see that you intend on interrogating me." He paused. "Do your worst."
Curion neared the barberian-like man with some caution, but was stopped by an approaching Arken. "No, you will learn nothing of use from him." the monk said. "We should slay him while he is defeated. He was obviously sent by our enemies to assassinate us."
"Enemies?" Curion echoed. "This man is not from my kingdom..."
Arken's blades flashed up, the Katana pointing at the young knight's throat threateningly. "This beast of a man is dangerous at best, now stand aside!"
Curion's eyes grew wide. This man who had proven himself a loyal ally now pointed his deadly sword at him, with an animalistic rage clouding his vision. He hardly seemed the same Arken. The squire steeled his gaze at the opposing monk, not yet willing to back down so easily.
A sly smirk formed on Asura's lips. "He will kill you, little one." the warrior remarked.
Curion chose to ignore him, and maintained his firm resolve, falling into an aggressive argument with Arken.

Asura gave Akyra a knowing glance, and the young woman was perceptive enough not only to notice, but also to realise the reason behind it. To say that the situation had grown dangerous, possibly even deadly, would be an understatement – But Akyra needed no prodding from the muscular man she had just defeated. During their short battle she had of course come to know the similarities between them; not in personality, but in fighting discipline and warrior’s instinct.
She took another look at the situation before them and realised that even she might have been fooled and too quick to judge. The man known as Arken was looming in on an unarmed Curion with a definite measure of contempt, while the only other one able to stop him was sitting helplessly with his arms paralysed at his sides. The one who called himself a monk wore a sneer unlike any expression she had seen or come to expect from the normally emotionless Arken. It was an evil grin filled with malice and intent. He stood poised before Curion, neither of them daring to blink. The poor squire’s face was riddled with a mixture of confusion and determination – One whom he had come to trust and perhaps even admire, was now staring at him with eyes hungering for the kill, and blades yearning for blood. But despite his bravery, he was now unarmed, no thanks to the trust he had placed in this man during the onset of Asura’s ambush. Even with his enormous talent, he was still empty handed, and still possessed much untapped potential. Akyra could see no way for him to survive the impending confrontation. She was sure that he was smart enough to know this, too. Moreover, it must have dawned on him by now, as it did to her, that Arken had never truly been who had lead them to believe. He was terribly good at subterfuge… for a monk. Far too good.
She glanced at Asura again, who was obviously responsible in some way for Arken’s decision to cast off the cloak of deception. The great warrior returned her stare of desperation with one of intensity, and reinforced it with a look of reassurance and rage. No, not rage, hate – Hate for the monk!

Akyra, still bent on proving herself to Curion and his party, did not delay any longer. She crouched low behind Asura, whispering to him that the reversal technique was not going to be pleasant, and delivered two blows to the side of the man’s neck that mirrored her previous move. If she hit a different mark than the last time, then it was hardly perceptible, and by the looks of it, Asura could not care any less – Akyra watched in astonishment as the man rose to the full length of his huge frame, powering right through the immobilising pain that would normally have kept most other men static for at least a few moments.
Without a sign of hesitation, Asura was up and charging toward Akren, not showing any interest in his pole arm that still lay at Akyra’s side. As if a replay from their previous scene, the two warriors clashed in a flare of sparks and resounding clangs.
Clangs? Curion echoed, as he took a step back from the battle. With what was Asura fighting? Then, the answer came to him: Greaves.
Asura was fighting with his bare hands, and parrying the attacks with the metal protectors covering the outer edges if his forearms! Somehow, it seemed, he was as proficient with hand-to-hand combat as he was in his pole arm training. The man was a savage and unrelenting warrior… And in resorting to this strategy, he had found equal grounds on which to fight Arken, even able to match the monk’s every blade movement with his own attacks. And match him he did. By the look of things, Arken had no clear advantage, and there simply was no stopping the barbarian’s rage. The dualists’ tussle was started anew, and as they weaved through each other’s attacks, countering and defending faster than ever before, Akyra’s sharp eyes and similar spirit detected the flame in Asura’s energy. This is what he lived for: the excitement of the adventure, and the thrill of the battle. This was his environment. It was all he knew – And he thrived in it.

His vision shook and his head spun as Arken took yet another blow to the jaw. This was the second one, only counting the ones to his facial area. He shook off the damage in the midst of the battle, not missing a beat or losing his composure.
But without the weight or added length of swords encumbering and slowing him down, Asura was the quicker and far more manoeuvrable. Even so, Arken had managed a few cuts, nicking his opponent on numerous occasions. However, these hits drew nothing from the battle but for a few small lines of blood, and the thunderous punches delivered by the large man proved more damaging to the smaller Arken.

It was time for the monk to step up to the fight, and unleash his all upon his insolent pursuer.

Note:
Still to come - Some big-ass fight/war scene thing